


Oh My Stars and Shirt Garters

by LadyDrace



Series: Junk Ficlets from Tumblr [75]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal, Anal Sex, Banter, Bickering, Bottom Derek, Bottom Derek Hale, Clothed Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, Power Bottom Derek, Shirt Garters, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-14 02:38:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7149317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyDrace/pseuds/LadyDrace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek wears shirt garters. Stiles is unprepared for this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh My Stars and Shirt Garters

**Author's Note:**

> A while ago [Lena](http://lena221b.tumblr.com/) posted [this](http://lena221b.tumblr.com/post/139789794180/fiddleabout-this-looks-so-stupidly-kinky-for), and I said I’d write porn about it. I DID plan for it to be longer than this, but such is the way of my muses, those lil shits.
> 
> [Originally posted here](http://ladydrace.tumblr.com/post/140268079596/a-while-ago-lena221b-posted-this-and-i-said-id).
> 
> Unbetaed.

The sounds they’re making are obscene. In the most basic sense of the word, even. Lewd, wet, slapping noises happen every time Stiles slams his cock back inside Derek, lube squelching between them with every thrust, and, oh god, Derek is gonna murder him, because they’re definitely gonna get lube on his crisp white dress shirt.

 

But Stiles cannot be blamed, frankly. _Nuh uh_ , this one is all on Derek. Stiles was getting ready, like he was damn well supposed to, and then Derek wandered in wearing fucking _bondage gear_. Stiles cannot be expected to be cool about shit like that! No matter how much Derek claims it’s a legitimate clothing item, Stiles maintains that anything that looks like it could be ordered from a BDSM website cannot possibly be innocent.

 

Ergo: Derek did it on purpose. And also ergo: this is all Derek’s fault.

 

“Stiles, come on,” he urges, fingers scrabbling for the slats in the headboard as he shoves back harder. “Come on, we’re late, fuck, _come on_.”

 

“Fuck,” Stiles says, because that’s pretty much the extent of his vocabulary right now, and pushes in faster. And, yep, those are definitely lube spatters on Derek’s shirt. It was inevitable, really, seeing as it’s held down, half-way covering his amazing ass, courtesy of the damn bondage items calling themselves shirt garters. Stiles can’t keep his hands off them, constantly slipping his fingers under the taut thigh bands or gently snapping the straps, just to feel Derek clench around him. _God_.

 

“Get a fucking move on, or I’m jerking off in the bathroom, _alone_ ,” Derek growls, and Stiles knows he must have his wires crossed somehow, because threats like that really does it for him.

 

“Jesus, Derek,” he chokes out, hips stuttering through another few thrusts before he’s coming, clinging white-knuckled to Derek’s hips, thumbs just brushing the damn garters. “Asshole,” he wheezes, and at least he’s not alone in the crossed wires, because Derek whimpers, and strokes himself impossibly faster, finally coming with a muffled cry all over the bed and the bottom of his damn shirt.

 

Yeah, it’s a goner.

 

“You owe me a shirt, fucker,” is the first thing Derek says when he can breathe again, and Stiles just snorts, because his come-dumb brain likes simple jokes.

 

“You started this, _fuckee_.”

 

Derek turns his head and glares over his shoulder, and it would work so much better if Stiles wasn’t still _inside him_. “How the hell do you figure? _You_ started this!”

 

“Did no- _ot_!” Stiles insists while pulling out, because Derek keeps squeezing around his over-sensitive cock just to be a jerk.

 

“Who pushed who onto the bed, exactly?”

 

Inspecting his clothes it looks like Stiles somehow escaped the lube spatters, and he sets about getting his suit back in order as Derek starts angrily getting out of his shirt, distracting Stiles with the snapping of the clips. “Uh, that would be _you_ , Mr-secret-bondage-gear.”

 

“Ugh, Stiles, I told you, they’re called shirt garters.”

 

“Sounds fake, but okay,” Stiles says, knowing it’ll piss Derek off.

 

“Peasant.”

 

Stiles gasps dramatically, clutching his chest. “Derek Stephen Hale, you’d better take that big fat silver spoon out of your mouth, and replace it with soap!”

 

Derek snorts and rolls his eyes, tossing the shirt aside. “Whatever. Get me a spare shirt from my suitcase,” he says, disappearing into the bathroom.

 

Stiles is half-way to said suitcase when his recently orgasm-slowed brain finally catches up. “What?! You have a spare suit?! You _did_ plan this! I’m totally not at fault here!”

 

Derek pokes his head around the door jamb. “Yes, you are. And when Cora kills us for being late to her wedding, I’m blaming you and your goddamn dick.”

 

Stiles throws the shirt in his face. “And I’ll explain to her exactly how my dick got involved, and she’ll totally be on my side.”

 

“She’ll also be scarred for life.”

 

“She can deal.”

 

Derek snorts again, clothes rustling as he hurries into them. “And she’ll side with me. Because she knows why I brought a spare suit.”

 

Stiles grimaces into the mirror, as he makes sure his hair doesn’t look like he just got laid. (It does.) “And you think _me_ telling her about our sex life will scar her?”

 

“Yes, because I don’t tell her about our sex life,” Derek argues, coming back out, looking perfectly composed, damn him. “I do tell her about my boyfriend who inevitably spills something on himself or on me during every single important event, and she knows I brought back-up clothes.”

 

“Hey, I’m not _that_ klutzy!” Stiles argues, which is probably a lie, and not even a very good one.

 

Derek smiles at him all gooey for that, which makes no sense, seriously, who the hell gets all soft over having their significant other lie them right in the face, _badly_. “You are,” Derek insists, and softens the statement with a kiss.

 

“Yeah, okay.” Stiles can give him this one, if only because he’s such an amazing kisser.

 

Still totally not his fault.

 

End.


End file.
